Third Time's the Charm
by Lady Eleanor Boleyn
Summary: Ages and Ages Hence/I took the road less travelled. Summer 1532. King Henry falls from his horse while visiting the Duke of Norfolk and is tended by his eldest daughter Katherine. The rest, they say, is history. Will Henry's third Katherine finally turn out to be his lucky charm? Will he finally get the Prince he so craves? Loose Challenge Response. Sixth in my Six Brides Series.


_**For those who are familiar with Sister to the Queen: Yes, I have changed Eleanor Boleyn's daughters … They are now Anne and Cecily, rather than Margaret and Anne. Given this is a different universe to that story, and Anne's already dead, I thought it worked better to have Eleanor name her first daughter for Anne rather than her second.**_

 _Summer 1532_

The moment Elizabeth, Duchess of Norfolk, clapped eyes on her husband, she knew he was planning something. The glint in his eye was too beady for him not to be.

"Thomas," she greeted, dipping him a half-curtsy as he brushed his lips over her knuckles, "You look pleased."

"I have just persuaded the King to spend three nights with us here at Framlingham before he rides to visit his sister the Duchess of Suffolk."

"And you didn't think to ask me first? You know how much work a royal visit is!" Elizabeth arched an eyebrow, but she was too proud a woman to truly resist. She would think foul scorn of any of her contemporaries who failed to host their monarch in the regal style he deserved, after all.

She waited another few moments, wondering if Thomas was going to let her in on his plotting of his own volition. He didn't, of course. He never did.

"So, what are we hoping to get out of this visit, husband? It's going to cost us a fortune, so we'd better see some return on it."

"I was thinking, perhaps a royal groom for young Mary? The Lord Lieutenant of Ireland is only three years her senior, after all, and he's plenty old enough to be thinking of starting a family of his own."

"Mary?" Now, Elizabeth did raise her eyebrows, "Not Kitty? She's the elder of the two, I'd have thought you'd be thinking of her first."

"I would have thought of Kitty, but it's barely four months since the young Percy heir died of consumption. I can't afford to alienate the northerners by finding a match for her before he's even cold in his grave. No, if we are to push for a royal match now, it will have to be Mary."

So saying, Thomas strode across the solar to the table in the corner and poured himself a cup of wine. Suddenly, he glanced across at his wife.

"That doesn't mean I'm not thinking of Kitty, Eliza. I've my eye on the young Lord Dorset for her, if Suffolk doesn't get there first with one of his minxes."

"Those minxes are the King's own nieces. I'd have a care how you speak of them," Elizabeth warned, but she couldn't help the way her lips quirked up into a smile. She and Thomas might not see eye to eye on many things, might not have shared a bed in over a decade, but when it came to plotting for their family's rise, they were still wholly in accord.

That thought in mind, she dipped her husband a brief curtsy, "If you'll excuse me, My Lord. I'd better go and see to the stores, since we've an entire Court to feed next month."

"I knew I could rely on you," Thomas nodded his assent and waved her away.

* * *

It was the second day of the King's stay at Framlingham and so far, things had been going exactly as Thomas planned. The King had been in a jovial mood, made all the more so by the news that his young niece and sister-in-law, the Countess of Lincoln, had given birth to a baby girl earlier that month, and had named her Anne, for the late Queen. He had met young Mary and seemed rather taken with her. He even seemed agreeable to the prospect of the educated fifteen-year-old becoming a Fitzroy by marriage, though of course, nothing was set in stone. That morning, a hunting party, led by the King and Charles Brandon, had set off from Framlingham in bright colours and blaring trumpets and merry spirits, galloping away over the gently rolling countryside so quickly they kicked a veritable dust storm up behind them.

Late that afternoon, however, the riders who returned did so at a snail's pace, holding their horses to as gentle a walk as possible so as not to jostle the body they were carrying any more than they could help.

Alarmed at the change in their demeanour, Thomas squinted into the bright sunlight, trying to make out who the injured party was. When he realised, his heart nearly stopped.

"My God, it's the King!"

He sprinted forward, meeting the party halfway across the inner bailey. The King lay motionless on the makeshift litter, his normally dancing blue eyes dull and lifeless. Indeed, His Majesty was so still, Thomas feared for a moment that –

"Is he…"

"Still breathing," Brandon shook his head, ashen with shock beneath the sun-browned contours of his skin. Thomas put a hand to his chest in relief.

"Thank God! What happened?"

"We were remounting after lunch when the King's horse got stung by a wasp. His Majesty wasn't secure in the saddle yet, so when it reared, he got flung off and brained himself on a low-hanging branch."

Brandon was brusque as he spoke, so much so, in fact, that had the circumstances been any different to what they were, Thomas would have torn into him for discourtesy. As it was, however, he merely nodded and gestured for the servants to take His Majesty indoors.

"Take him to his chamber. I'll fetch a physician."

The sad procession did as they were bade, and Thomas looked around, gaze lighting on a likely-looking lad.

"You," he barked, "Take my swiftest horse and ride for Dr Owen, now!"

The boy needed no second urging. He bowed and ran. Thomas, meanwhile, paused to collect himself. He glanced round, noting absently that his family were gathered like a flock of nervous starlings in the door frame. For a moment, he was impatient with them, wondering how they could show nerves when what they needed to do was take charge of the situation, but then a thought occurred to him. Mary might be too young and flighty to help her mother tend the King, but Kitty wasn't. She was eighteen now, and quite level-headed, as far as girls of her age went.

"Kitty. You'll wait here for Dr Owen and accompany him to the King's chamber. You'll stay there to help him. Do whatever he tells you and do not leave the King until he wakes, do you understand?"

For a moment, something flickered in his eldest daughter's eyes, before she nodded, "Yes, father. As you say."

* * *

Henry shifted and groaned, murmuring loudly as he forced his eyes open. For a moment, his vision swam, and he had to choke back a wave of nausea as he struggled to prop himself up on his elbows. Where was he? What had happened?

"Your Majesty! Don't exert yourself! Here, drink this."

A cup of sweet, watered wine was held to his lips and he drank greedily, vision clearing as the liquid slid down his throat. A young woman was bending over him, auburn hair escaping her coif and bouncing forward to tickle his throat as she tended him.

"Who…" The question trailed off as his nurse shushed him gently.

"Don't try to speak yet, Sire. Not until the physicians have seen you."

"Wha-"

"Your Grace's horse was stung while on the hunt this afternoon. Your Grace took a tumble and hit your head on a branch. In all honesty, Sire, it's a miracle you're awake. I'll fetch the physicians, let them know you're awake."

His nurse straightened, curtsied and went to the door. Henry tried to reach out and stop her, but his arms were sluggish, slow to obey his command. It was only at the threshold that she turned back.

"Oh, you asked my name, My Lord. It's Katherine, but my family call me Kitty. Kitty Howard."

"Kitty," Henry began to try to form the name, but fell back into a half-asleep state before he could quite manage it.

* * *

"You're Norfolk's eldest daughter," Several hours and multiple tonics later, Henry felt strong enough to hold a more coherent conversation. Kitty sat by him, paging through a Bible held on her lap.

"Indeed, Sire. Kitty, as my family know me."

"But why haven't I seen you before? You're old enough to have had a place at Court before now, surely?"

"I'm eighteen, if that's what you mean, My Lord, but my father married me to the young Percy heir five years ago. I was up north, learning to be his chatelaine…and became his nurse when he turned consumptive. The family could never spare me to wait on the Queen, as much as I would have loved the honour."

"Up north, were you? And yet, now you are back here, as your father's daughter once more. Was there nothing to keep you in the north?"

Henry couldn't keep the curiosity out of his voice. To his alarm, Kitty's eyes clouded for a moment, before she calmed herself.

"No, Your Majesty," she said wistfully, "Nothing. I was too young to be a mother when I first went north, and by the time I had grown up enough, Harry, well, he was too ill. We talked about it, but…"

Her voice tailed off. Henry, with uncharacteristic patience, waited a few moments, but she said nothing further. Eventually, he put his hand over hers.

"Should you like to be a mother, Lady Kitty?"

"Oh, yes, Your Grace!" The young woman's blue-grey eyes lit up, "I'd like nothing better. But there was no place for me in Northumberland, not with Harry's brother married. I love Nell dearly, as any woman would her sister, but we cannot hope to live under the same roof. We're too dissimilar for that. And besides, my mother, well, she needed me here, to help with the family and the household. In any case, I'm sure my father won't dally about making a new match for me. I shall simply have to be patient."

"Hmm," Henry hummed. There was something more he wanted to say to her, something tugging at the back of his mind. But even as he opened his mouth again, he felt exhaustion tugging at the corners of his vision, turning them black.

Sensing it, Kitty stood up and helped him lie back on the pillows without another word.

"Your Grace must rest," she whispered, "I should not have tired you so with my idle chatter."

Henry half-groaned in protest – their conversation had been anything but idle - but he was too tired to prevent her slipping away, as she had done once before.

* * *

Elizabeth watched out of the corner of her eye as the King beckoned Thomas to him and spoke in hushed, urgent whispers. Every now and again, His Majesty glanced towards the children, to where Kitty stood beside Mary, the younger boys clustered around them.

Elizabeth's heart missed a beat. Whatever the King and her husband were discussing, it seemed to be of great import.

Her suspicions were only heightened when the King, having taken his leave of her, strode over to Kitty and bowed to her far more deeply than propriety demanded.

"Until we meet again, My Lady Kitty," he breathed, brushing her hand with his lips before nodding quickly to the younger children and vaulting up into the saddle.

The family watched him canter off into the distance, but Elizabeth waited only as long as was truly necessary before shooing the children inside and cornering her husband.

"What was that about?"

To her surprise, Thomas looked shell-shocked. She'd never seen her polished courtier of a husband look startled at anything in his life. He blew out his cheeks.

"I don't know what Kitty said to His Majesty, Eliza, but the man was in her company for no more than a couple of hours at a time and came out besotted."

Elizabeth couldn't help it. Her jaw dropped – though only for a second, before she controlled herself. Stafford women didn't gape like clodpoles who knew no better.

"His Majesty? Besotted with our Kitty?"

"That is what I said."

"But… She's too good… To be his concubine would ruin her! It's bad enough she's already a widow despite being little more than a child. To share His Majesty's bed…"

"Can only be good for our family as long as she does it under the right auspices," Thomas cut her off. Elizabeth gasped and swallowed.

"No… You can't mean?"

"Have you really known the King take a mistress after our niece, wife? Besides, why would he need to? His annulment from the Spanish Infanta came through at Christmas. His Grace is a free man…. and our daughter's blood is as good as that of his mother, the Lady Elizabeth of York," Thomas sighed and ran his fingers through his rapidly thinning hair, "I'd push for Kitty to be coronated Queen, if I didn't already know that was impossible. If His Majesty wouldn't crown the Lady Anne of Cleves or even the Spanish Infanta, he'll not crown our daughter. It's a blow, I'll admit, but not one we can't surmount. Kitty is to be England's next Queen. That's more than enough for now."

Inwardly, Elizabeth was turning somersaults as she tried to come to terms with this overwhelming change. Outwardly, however, she was the consummate noblewoman, taking the startling news as no more than her due. Thomas watched her calm façade proudly. Little though they liked each other personally, he'd always respected Elizabeth for her ability to put on a mask when she had to. He took her hand and kissed it lightly.

"You'll be My Lady the Queen's Mother come Michaelmas," he promised, gratified to see her simply curtsy slightly in acknowledgement of the news.

* * *

 _Christmas 1532_

"But I don't want a new mother!" Princess Margaret whined and wriggled, stamping her feet as Lady Carey wrestled her into a green velvet dress, "I don't!"

"I'm afraid, Your Highness, you don't have a choice. Your father has married my cousin the Lady Katherine and he wants you to meet her. Now, are you going to behave and show Their Majesties what a lovely big girl you can be, hmm?"

"No! No!" Margaret ripped her hood from her maid's hand and threw it on the ground, "I don't want a new mother!"

"Your Highness!" Lady Carey scolded, biting back a curse as the bells began to ring. The Princesses were due to meet their new mother any minute! In that instant, she was mightily relieved that it was to be a private meeting. At least there wouldn't be the whole court watching if the younger Princess kicked up a fuss.

"Meg's just being silly, Aunt Mary," Elizabeth, or Bess, as the family knew her, tugged lightly on Lady Carey's sleeve, "She's just scared our new mother won't like us. Our last mother didn't - and we didn't like her," she added as an afterthought.

Lady Carey's heart clenched for a moment, as she looked down at the older of the twins. Twenty minutes older than her sister, Bess looked cherubic with her unruly copper curls cascading down her back, bright as rubies against the silver gown she was wearing. The holly wreath in her hair was slightly askew, but it was merely the work of a moment to straighten it. As defiant and rambunctious as she could be, Bess knew when she needed to behave in a way that her younger sister didn't. Silently, Lady Carey blamed the King for that. He'd always had a soft spot for his youngest daughter, not least because she looked like her dead mother, with thick dark hair and big brown eyes. Meg was used to winding her father round her little finger. In some ways, it was hardly surprising she wasn't taking kindly to the idea of her father sharing his life with another woman.

"I know, Bess," she said softly, "And I am sorry for that. But my cousin is nothing like the Spanish Infanta. I promise. Now, off you go and play a game with Cate, hmm, while I sort your sister out. A quiet one."

"Yes, Aunt Mary," Eyes lighting up. Bess scuttled off to find her older cousin, and Lady Carey turned her attention back to dressing her sister.

Margaret was ready eventually, but even then, she pouted and dragged her heels as Lady Carey led her nieces to the King's private rooms. She wouldn't take her sister's hand either – or curtsy properly when the herald announced them.

Instead, she ran straight to her father, crying out, "Papa!" and straining her arms for him to pick her up.

Henry did so, automatically, but his eyes darkened slightly.

"Don't you want to greet your new mother, Meg? She's so excited to meet you. Look how nicely Bess is doing it."

"No," Margaret pouted, "Don't like her. Want you, Papa!"

So saying, she nestled fiercely into her father's arms, burrowing her head under his chin, from which position she watched Kitty suspiciously.

Henry was about to scold her – no daughter of his would get away with being so rude – when Kitty touched his arm and shook her head. There was no point pushing Meg. That would only ruin their relationship, if Her Highness felt she was being forced.

"Leave it," she breathed, "She'll come around. Just give her time."

And so much of the afternoon passed. Kitty made a point of having a wonderful time with little Bess without pushing Meg one way or the other. The younger Princess simply sat in her father's arms, playing with his beard a little, chattering to him, and sneaking glances at her stepmother and older sister from time to time.

Gradually, her curiosity began to win out over her fury. She tugged on her father's arm.

"Let me down, please, Papa."

When Henry did so, Meg drifted towards Kitty and Bess. Bess was sitting on her stepmother's skirts as she wove plaits round the crown of her head, securing them with jewelled pins.

Meg reached out and touched one gingerly.

"Bess looks pretty," she whispered, a wistful note in her voice.

Kitty glanced up, "Would you like me to do the same for you when I've finished your sister's hair?" she offered gently.

Meg hesitated, then nodded, "Yes, please."

* * *

 _January 1536_

The guns boomed, boomed…and boomed again. Those listening released a breath they didn't even know they had been holding until the third exultant roar of cannon had died away. A Prince! The country had a Prince at last!

"God Save His Highness! God Save the King! God Save Queen Katherine!"

The cry was a lone one at first, but it was soon taken up by a multitude of other throats, until it seemed that all of London was ringing out with cheers for the new-born heir to the throne.

Henry and Kitty heard the cheers from where they were clustered together in her lying-in chambers, beaming down at their son.

"He's so calm, given the noise," Kitty commented, stroking the boy's head with a fingertip as he lay placidly in his father's arms.

"Indeed. Are you sure he's my son? None of my other children were this quiet, least of all your cousin's daughters," Henry answered, but there was a teasing note to his voice. There was no real reason to worry that Kitty might not have been faithful to him and he knew it. Kitty chuckled.

"So Lady Carey tells me."

"What shall we call him?" Henry wondered aloud, rocking the child in his arms lightly as he mused.

"Henry."

Kitty's response was automatic. She'd had weeks in confinement to consider the matter, after all, "Henry, for his father and my brother."

Henry considered for a moment, testing the name out on his lips. A surge of pride filled him as he spoke. Prince Henry. Henry, Prince of Wales. Why not? It was a fine name. It had served him well, after all. Why shouldn't there be a third Henry Tudor on the throne of England one day?

He nodded, reaching for Kitty's hand.

"Henry it is, darling."

An ecstatic silence stretched between them for a few moments before Kitty scoffed in amusement.

"Hmm?" Henry murmured, intrigued by her behaviour. Kitty shook her head slightly.

"I was just thinking. It's probably best if you break the news to my father. I'm not sure how he'll react to having a Henry for a grandson rather than a Thomas."

Henry blinked. What on earth was she on about? A second later, however, as he considered his father-in-law's pride, the penny dropped. His Grace of Norfolk thought so highly of himself; of course he'd have the temerity to expect every single one of his grandsons to be named Thomas after himself.

Throwing his head back, Henry joined his wife in roaring with laughter.

* * *

 _May 1536_

The palace was swathed in black. The King and Queen were locked together in their conjoining apartments and even the most seasoned of courtiers were treading on eggshells.

Candles flickered in the Chapel Royal, illuminating the heartbreakingly tiny coffin as it stood on the dais before the altar.

Charles Brandon, the Prince's godfather, stood vigil over his nephew's body, praying to the Lord to give the King and Queen strength, particularly the Queen. Oh, Henry was devastated to have lost his beloved heir, but he'd been through this before. He knew how quickly infants' lives could be snuffed out by coughs and fevers. The Queen, on the other hand… The Prince was her firstborn, the first child she'd ever begun to plan a future for. She'd never suffered the grief of having such tantalising promise ripped away before it could even begin to be realised. It was little wonder she'd fallen apart, refusing all comfort, except that of her husband. It was said Henry couldn't even leave the girl's room without her breaking down into tears.

Kitty's eyes stung with salt, aching ever more fiercely as she wept. Distantly, she could hear Henry crooning to her, promising her it would be all right, that the first storm of her grief would pass, that they'd have more children.

But she didn't want more children! She just wanted her baby boy back!

She heard Henry muttering to her ladies, felt his arms shift around her. No! He couldn't leave her. He was the only one who even vaguely began to understand how she was feeling. Little Harry had been his boy too. Oh, God, Harry! Harry was gone, his precious life snuffed out by a particularly virulent cough. And she hadn't even been there to watch him go! She clung tighter, burying her face in her husband's chest as a fresh wave of grief crested over her.

Henry felt Kitty burrow into him and glanced up at his niece Frances, who hovered worriedly on the edge of his vision.

"Shall I fetch Dr Linacre, Uncle Henry?" she whispered.

"I think you'd better, Frances," he breathed back, "In all honesty, I can't see Her Majesty resting unless we give her some poppy."

Frances nodded, curtsied and ran.

Kitty heard her go, heard the doors swing open again and the clink of bottles among hushed voices, but paid none of it any heed – what did it all matter, anyway, now that Harry was gone? – until Henry was gently cradling her head and pressing a goblet to her lips.

"Here, darling," he whispered, "This will help, I promise. I promise. Just drink it for me, that's it. Good girl."

Kitty opened her mouth in protest – how could anything help when her Prince was gone? – but before she could say anything, the liquid was slipping down her throat, smooth and thick and easy and oblivion was creeping up on her from the edges of her vision.

Desperate to get away from the gnawing, aching pain, she welcomed the darkness like an old friend.

* * *

 _1539_

"What are we going to do, Henry?" Kitty looked up at her husband, laying the sewing in her lap aside for a moment as he closed the book he had been squinting at.

For a moment, Kitty's lips quirked in amusement at the idea of her husband still, in his late forties, being too vain to admit he really needed spectacles, before she laid the feeling aside. This was a serious conversation, one they'd really been putting off for far too long.

"What do you mean, Kitty?"

Kitty spread her hands, "Exactly what I say. It's been seven years since we married and, let's be honest, I've shown no signs of being with child. Not since…" she trailed off, unable to speak their short-lived son's name.

Henry did it for her, reaching out to cover his hand with hers, "Not since Harry."

"Exactly." Kitty hesitated, knowing what she was saying was a slur on her husband's masculinity, but gritting her teeth and ploughing on regardless, "I'm not saying we shouldn't keep trying – I know we will, but, Henry, I fear we might need to start making contingency plans. I can't help but remember how we met. If that accident had gone even a tiny bit worse, England could have been without you, and without a clear heir either. One more accident like that and…"

Again, Kitty couldn't bring herself to finish, horrified at the very thought she was trying to express. This time, however, Henry didn't cut in. He was too lost in thought himself.

"I'm sorry, darling," he said at last. Kitty looked up at him, startled.

"Sorry! What have you got to be sorry for? I'm the one who ought to be sorry! I've failed you as a wife and as a Queen. I should have given you a whole host of sons by now!"

Henry was touched by her declaration. They both knew it wasn't fully true. Little though he liked to admit it, in his heart of hearts, Henry knew he wasn't as virile as he had once been. It took far more than before to arouse him, and he was always loath to ask his wife to demean them both by using whore's tricks on him. Hence, more often than not, he had to fake pleasure for her sake without actually completing. Thankfully, even in her mid-twenties, Kitty was still too innocent to always notice. It was down to that wonderfully sheltered upbringing she'd received as Lady Katherine Howard, eldest daughter of the Duke of Norfolk. Henry had never been so grateful to a woman's naivety in his life.

He shook his head, clearing it of such thoughts. Now was not the time to get carried away.

"I suppose I could write to Kathie," he suggested, "Her eldest boy must be sixteen or so by now. Growing like a weed and a fine warrior too, by all accounts. If he had an English bride to help him adjust, I'm sure he'd make a splendid King."

Kitty blinked. Henry had taken that far better than she'd expected. His proposed choice of successor was also somewhat surprising. She'd expected him to name the young Earl of Lincoln over his Portuguese grandson, given that the Earl had been raised in England. But then, she reminded herself, the Duke of Beja's heir was the son of his eldest daughter, Princess Katherine. Henry was too proud a man to want to see anyone but his own blood on the throne, and naming either the Queen of Scots or her young son or Bess or Meg above his oldest child's line would most likely cause rifts, maybe even war, if Princess Katherine's family felt the sting keenly enough. Strange though the choice of a foreigner might seem, it was perhaps the most sensible in the long run.

That thought in mind, she hummed in agreement and began planning entertainments for a state visit.

* * *

 _1540_

"Her Highness the Duchess of Beja and the Lord Miguel!"

Kathie curtsied to her father for the first time in nearly eighteen years, beaming up at him as, belieing his years, he sprang to his feet and opened his arms to her.

"Kathie, my white rose," he greeted, kissing her on both cheeks before pushing her back to look at her more closely.

"You look radiant, darling. Marriage and motherhood suit you."

"I should hope so! I've been married almost two decades and have five children to show for it," Kathie chuckled, "Speaking of which, this is my son, Miguel." She gestured to the young man behind her.

"Miguel?" Despite himself, Henry couldn't help but query the unfamiliar name.

"Michael," Kathie translated, a wry smile curving her lips, "He was born on Michaelmas."

The young man swept a flamboyant bow, "I am honoured, Sire," he said, his English only slightly accented, to Henry's secret relief.

"Grandfather will do," Henry nodded his head, before turning to the dais, where Kitty sat with Bess and Meg on either side of her, their companions surrounding them.

"Kathie, might I introduce your mother, Queen Katherine, your sisters, Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret and your cousins, the Marchioness of Dorset, Ladies Eleanor, Anne and Cecily Brandon, and Mistress Catherine Carey. Michael, your grandmother, aunts and their companions."

Kathie curtsied slightly and Miguel bowed grandly, before kissing each of the girls' hands in turn, his eyes sparkling roguishly up at each of them, particularly the older girls', much to Bess's obvious chagrin. Henry chuckled. Bess and Meg were used to being the toast of every young man at Court, but that was really only due to their rank. It might be good for them to have a young man dismiss them for the little girls they really were.

* * *

Three weeks later, Henry was surer that he wanted Miguel to be King than he'd ever been of anything else in his life, save perhaps his love for Kate. The young man was everything he'd ever dreamed his heir would be: intelligent, athletic and carried himself with a pride and grace that suggested he'd been born to the role. To make matters even better, he seemed to be strongly attracted to Henry's niece Eleanor Brandon, so perhaps finding him an English Queen wouldn't be that difficult after all. It would simply mean having to compensate the Cliffords for the loss of their future Countess.

The only fly in the ointment was how to secure Miguel's succession. Given he had family lands in Portugal, one could hardly expect the boy to stay in England for the rest of Henry's life. Yet, if he was in Portugal when the time came, it would be that much harder for him to assert himself as England's King. Men with Tudor or Plantagenet blood might find themselves tempted to make a play for what they saw as a vacant throne, if Miguel was all the way in Lisbon when Henry died.

As usual, it was Henry's canny Secretary, Master Cromwell, who came up with the solution.

"King Henry the Second crowned his son Henry within his own lifetime in order to ensure the Succession, Sire. Unfortunately for him, the Young King predeceased him. Nonetheless, I believe the strategy was sound. Perhaps Your Majesty might consider doing the same for the Lord Michael?"

Henry considered for a moment, "You don't think it might set young Michael up as a figurehead for anyone who wishes to oppose me?"

"In different circumstances, Sire, perhaps, but the Lord Michael isn't familiar enough either with the country or with the Court for that to be the case. No true Englishman would ever take his side over yours while Your Majesty still lived and breathed. I am sure crowning His Highness and thus vesting the Succession in the Duchess of Beja's family would simply stabilise the country. You would be lauded for it, Sire."

As he spoke, Cromwell kept a careful eye on his master's face. He knew the moment the King accepted his suggestion. Appealing to the insecure little boy inside the man – the large part of him that longed to be celebrated and loved by his subjects - always worked.

The King exhaled and reached for the wine flagon, pouring two sparkling goblets.

"What would I do without you, Cromwell? Your suggestion has just saved me many a sleepless night, I'm sure. Here, have a drink. You've earned it."

"Thank you, Sire," Cromwell accepted the goblet and was about to put it to his lips when the King suddenly raised his in a toast.

"To the next Tudor King. King Michael!"

Knowing it would go far worse for him if he didn't, Cromwell hastily echoed his master.

"King Michael, Sire. King Michael!"


End file.
